Oh How Faire It Is!
by Lady Cinnibar
Summary: Slash. Duncan Methos. Rennies. Kilts. Oh yes, and bagpipes. Don't forget the bagpipes.


First of all, let me say that when inspiration walks up, slaps you in the face, and wakes you up at four forty four in the morning, you're gonna be pretty pissed, until she sits down and explains it to you. First of all, let me say this Muse is not a normal visitor. Erato doesn't usually drop in for tea, much less come waking me up, let alone come knocking at an hour of the morning I'd usually hurt someone for, dragging Eros along with her. Now, when the Muse of Erotic poetry, and the Greek God of love (with a special connotation of homosexual pairs, he being the sponsor of the Sacred Band of Thebes) come a telling you a Highlander story they want you to write, you sit up and listen. And when they so happen to have gotten the idea from the music on your eternally playing CD player, and insisted on you waking up out of that so nice dream about those lovely hands of Methos', you'd better listen, because Muses don't take no for an answer.  
  
Second of all, let me tell you. Those Muses knew I'd fall for this. Way to many slash stories have paraded themselves on my screen lately. I guess it's a sort of revenge foe my lapse in the writing department.  
  
Third of all, let me tell my regular fans and readers of Ghosts that yes, I am asking Clio, Melpomene, and Calliope when they'll be helping me on my next chapter. I'll get back to you on that, I think they're screening their calls. I will be posting a more graphic version later. Yes. A more graphic version. Eros got very detailed in his inspiration. Probably turned me ten shades of red.  
  
But, lemme get the official stuff out of the way, and you can read my story. And no, Thalia, you can wait until a decent hour of the day! Say about eightish on my next evening off.  
  
Disclaimers: Methos, Joe Dawson, Duncan MacLeod, and any other Immortals, The Game, and such like things are the sole property and play- toys of the nice people over at Davis-Panzer. They are merely letting me borrow them, and not making a profit off them. Renaissance Faires belong to whomever runs them. The nice people at the Maryland Faire put on a really good show. It's a lot of fun. All comments about featured people and shops will be at the end. I'll gonna plug my favorites. I always will adore the Faire, and no matter how broke I go, I'll be back again and again. What can I say? Methos likes beer, I like men in tights. or kilts. or without shirts on. um,. damn, Eros is reminding me this isn't a girl guy story. Nertz.  
  
Warning: Yes, there's a Mary Jane in the story. Yes, I do actually do what I describe when I'm feeling mischievous, but usually not to people I don't know. I do drag them up to 'dance' with me. If you can call what I do dancing. I usually call it looking stupid, but hey, no body complains, so it's all good! No, Mary Jane is just a facilitator. And the author, Mary Kate, is laughing her bonny arse off about this. (EG)What can I say? I'm easily amused. No, I'm not quite that bold in reality, except to my very dear friend, who's the sighing woman, and her darling, who's the sighing man. Trust me, I don't need to do research from my end. I get all the details from her. Now, with no further ado, on with the story!!!  
  
  
  
Methos leaned o his elbow, looking at the sleepy form of his partner for the previous night. His lips quirked, as those chocolate brown eyes met his. "You know, we never got her name?"  
  
"Her? What her was involved in this?" MacLeod asked, brow furrowed.  
  
"The girl who just about flung me into you, and politely told us to go have fun."  
  
"Ah yes. her.." Duncan smiled. "The one who was so obviously drunk and having a blast. Stunk of cider, she did!"  
  
Methos grinned, and his nose wrinkled a little, and he leaned over for a sly whisper.  
  
"I don't know about you, but I think she earns a thanks or two."  
  
"So does Joe, for sending us there. God." Duncan's eyes closed briefly as Methos' hand carressed his skin, gently, softly, tracing elaborate designs on that beautiful skin, drawing ever so closer and lower, dancing up and back, in little quick bursts of sensation. "Tease." The burr in his voice made him almost growl with desire, and Methos' tongue touched his shoulder, and began leaving a little trail. An ever shrinking circle about the nipple, which tingled from neglect as nothing touched it, until sharp white teeth bit down gently, and the tongue caressed, flicked, across the surface, building up a little suction as MacLeod shivered under his old friend. Then, the head vanished, lifting up a little, and MacLeod whimpered in protest, as Methos' strong hands held his shoulders. Something began tracing on his stomach. Loops, and hen suddenly it became Methos' tongue, dipping in and out of the tingling belly button, and then questing lower.  
  
All bets were off on Duncan being able to control himself. Much later, two wrung out Immortals gasped and shivered, cold air hitting their flushed and sweaty skin, both an exquisite pleasure and a painful return to reality.  
  
"Do you think Joe knows, yet?" Methos said, chuckling.  
  
"Gods, I hope not. I can just see this going in my Chronicles." MacLeod groaned.  
  
"You should see your cousin's Chronicles! Do you honestly think he gave a damn where he got his pleasure?" Methos asked, chuckling darkly.  
  
Duncan smiled. "So they'll blame it on his Quickening tainting me?"  
  
"Probably. Knowing Joe, if he has to tell, he'll set the cards up to fall that way. No one's gonna blame me, after all, half the Watchers have hard- ons for your ass." Methos laughed. "Even Adam Pierson would come out of his research to listen to Joe tell a new story about you."  
  
Duncan stared at him. "They do?"  
  
"Mmhmm. Do you know how funny it is to seen an otherwise heterosexual bunch of men, including a few senior Watchers, pretending they're not discussing how hot someone is? It'dbe like, oh, a bunch of American spies, all male, gathered and gossiping about how hot of the Russians is. Or maybe worse. Even Schleppe whispered, and that man had a hell of a lot of clout when it came to doing anything he wanted. Poor old man. He managed to survive WW II, following a German Immortal, and he was Jewish. Mostly by getting stuck in the camp the Immortal worked at. Nobody complained if he wanted anything." Methos shook his head sadly. "Maybe if he'd lived until the whole Hunter mess, and the Galati deal. I know he'd have told them not to go after you, and to leave Dawson alone. Hell, he did tell them that once, when Dawson screwed up on a younger day, and let Amanda see him. Nobody, I repeat nobody, ever denied that little old man anything he wanted. He liked Dawson too, reminded him of the son he lost to the camps."  
  
MacLeod gave a strained grin.  
  
"Besides, Joe already knows. He heard me gossip with you often enough, and I'll bet you he set that girl on us." Methos shook his head. "I will bet you that Joseph Dawson set her on us, somehow. He's been giving me blunt hints on how to seduce people for a few months now."  
  
Duncan choked. "Dawson?!"  
  
"Well, it was his fault we went, anyway.."  
  
They'd been in Washington on a business matter for MacLeod, Methos trailing along for a reason known only to himself, and maybe not even he knew. Joe, ever on the lookout to try and discomfort MacLeod, suggested they try the Maryland Renaissance Festival while they were there.  
  
He'd heard a thing or two about bagpipes being there, and he didn't tell Mac, but he did tell Methos. Who agreed, of course, for the laugh.  
  
The day had been hot, and they'd showed up in slacks, and waited in line forever! Just trying to get in.  
  
But they did, after paying an exorbitant fee to get in. The lady took their tickets, and they entered an area. A lady was playing with flames at a nearby stage, and people were laughing. Nearby was a water fountain, hidden behind a screen of bushes. Methos looked highly amused. For that matter, Duncan was laughing.  
  
They wandered through the village, seeing a pair of people called Hack and Slash. There were no words to describe them. This was hilarious, and so much cleaner than the old days had been.  
  
They wandered past the joust, and Methos watched for awhile as horse thundered in a beautiful dance. Then they were off, stopping by a kilt company just so Duncan could buy a kilt. He sent Methos over to buy the shoes, from across the way. To the old man's shock, they were just like pairs he'd worn in the day, or maybe a little older. And he slipped a pair in the bag for himself. Good, cozy shoes, good for wearing in a fight.  
  
"Oh gods, Duncan! Not a kilt! You don't need one!" Methos groaned, as the Scotsman came out of the changing room all adorned in shirt, kilt, and boots. "You're had too much beer!"  
  
"Aw, Adam, it doesn't hurt anyone. They'll watch my belongings for me, and anything really valuable is in the car." MacLeod grinned. The swords. Hard to bring them into such a crowded place. And Joe had gone out of his way to say there were no other Immortals who favored the Faire. Strangely enough, it was for the crazy mortals only. Maybe because the memories hurt, unless you were laughing and making fun of the differences with someone who understood.  
  
"Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod, you're enough to try any good Welshman's patience!" Methos retorted. After all, Pierson was Welsh.  
  
"Ah, you can't even speak Welsh." Duncan said.  
  
That started Methos on it, and he spouted off a list of insults in Gaelic, sliding into Welsh once he knew Duncan's attention had been gotten.  
  
"Damn! You do speak Welsh!" MacLeod said, startled.  
  
"Never challenge a linguist to a language duel, Highlander, you'll lose." Methos retorted lazily, refraining from licking his lips. MacLeod had a damn fine body, and the kilt hung about his hips easily, the shirt thin enough the summer sun shone through it, not hiding that beautiful chest. Nice legs, too.  
  
He beat down that thought before it could go very far, as the shopkeeper sent them off hunting for the other accessories, including the furred bag they got from a nice store with a lot of pretty pelts that Methos wanted to come back to.  
  
Methos was debating a costume as well by this point. The scent of food, and beer, and the laughter of people, and the easy familiarity with weapons made the two Immortals feel relaxed. After one more beer at one of the numerous, and popular, taverns, he allowed the slightly drunken Scot to convince him to a costume. Of course, he chose something far more practical than a skirt. While he looked, some rain splattered on the ground, and the store emptied of other customers. Mothers herded their children out and away, wanting to get home while they could get there dry.  
  
He missed entirely the gulp on MacLeod's face when Methos stalked out of the changing room in leather pants and a leather vest, tee shirt beneath it. He swallowed even harder when Methos changed, in another shop, to a flowing loose linen shirt much like his own. Methos was grinning from ear to ear, and both of them were attracting a number of very open and frank stares from a lot of pretty ladies. And some handsome fellows too. The bag with his clothes and real shoes swung easily in his hand, and the guy at the kilt store happily stored it for them. "Enjoy your shopping, gents! And don't steal all the lasses!" The man said, chuckling, as one of his assistants stared at Methos, and licked her lips like a cat seeing a canary.  
  
Methos wiggled his eyebrows. "We might just tire them out a bit. Is that okay?"  
  
"Oh, aye, as long as they come back home. The sheep get mighty cold sometimes." One of the customers retorted. MacLeod looked pained, and amused.  
  
Methos wondered about the mud on his socks, but since Duncan didn't seem to care, he ignored it, and let the mud squelch. It was a lot quiet now the rain had swept through. Only die hard fans, and people having too much fun to go, were still here, even though it'd been a light trickle for a bare minute. It had threatened more, much more.  
  
Methos admired the chain mail for sale at the women's only shop, wishing some lady warriors really would wear that. "Damn, MacLeod, do you think we could get a girl into this stuff? Some of Joe's waitresses? I'd think the cold metal would be too much.." And his eyes tracked, following a very lithe, very young thing, walking about in a chain mail bra, and a little flounced tartan patterned skirt. "Then again, maybe not!"  
  
MacLeod shook his head. "Come on, there's a sword shop. I want to see this."  
  
He wandered next door, to the armory, and looked over the steel a bit. Some of it was pretty decorative, but some of it, oh some of it made his fingers twitch in a desire to acquire. MacLeod was playing with a Claymore, and awing the poor children who were watching him with shock on their faces.  
  
"Aye. It's real enough." He said, the real Scottish brogue tainting his voice as he handed it back.  
  
Someone sighed. "Are you coming back in that kilt on Scottish weekend?"  
  
"Maybe." MacLeod was giving them an uneasy look.  
  
"Will you be regimental?" The shopkeep leaned on the table, her face all dreamy.  
  
MacLeod turned dead white, and dragged Methos out, unwilling or no. They went down one lane, and Methos watched the whip show with delight. He wouldn't let MacLeod leave, and he wondered what a smaller whip, like they'd seen in that one leather store, would do to that fine olive skin sitting next to him. But he squashed the thought, ruthlessly, or he tried to, but it kept sneaking back while he wasn't looking.  
  
MacLeod was torn between the sheer look of attraction Methos had on his face for the whips, and the actual show. This Wheel of Death thing. aw gods, no! Not a man in a kilt hung upside down!  
  
Methos sighed when it ended, aware of the faint noise from behind him. He hadn't seen mortals with the old weapons in a long time, and the jokes traded between the man and the woman artists were definite innuendoes that certain didn't help matters any. MacLeod, next to him, the scent of sweat and wool rising off that beautiful body of his, and the crack of the whips. He knew his eyes had glazed over half way through, little fantasies he tried to kill running rampant in his head.  
  
But then MacLeod dragged him up the hill and around that jewelry shop and the stone sluicing booth, past the church, straight to a place giving forth bagpipe music. Called the Dragon Inn. Bagpipes. Aw, gods, no. Joe had warned him, and apparently this was good bagpipes, because MacLeod was headed straight for it.  
  
The customers were having a roaring good time of it, spinning about and dancing in a muddle of people. Not too many, not too crowded, but the rain earlier had chased a great number of people away.  
  
They chose seats at the benches surrounding the dancing floor, as the audience applauded the band's song. Methos snagged a beer from the bar, and sat down to enjoy it.  
  
The table next to them held a sighing woman, and a sighing man, and a dancer alighting to polish off a glass of something alcoholic. Was she even old enough to drink?  
  
The next song whirled out, and the dancer was off again. Like every other place at the Faire, costumes were many and varied. There was the lady dressed like a brownie from legend, and the numerous people dressed in the garb of nobles or peasants, or pirates! The dancer next to them was an elf, he thought, with little clay antlers on her head, pointed ears glued on, and a fox tail hanging from her rump. But she wore a short leather skirt, and a tight leather vest that left her middle bare, so Methos had no worries about any desire for authenticity. Then again, there was the fellow slouched in a corner, dressed in blue jeans and a tee shirt, and the girl in full Southern Belle outfit, escorted by a young Naval officer in full dress whites.  
  
The dancers all spun about, prancing or attempting to Scottish dance. On one circle, the elf's hand reached out, and Methos watched with startlement as MacLeod was carried up out of his seat into the dance. MacLeod let it happen, he was too buzzed to protest, and he seemed to be enjoying himself.  
  
He was clapping with everyone else as the Highlander showed them real Scottish dancing. The old way.  
  
But that dancer, little miss elf, showed up at his table, eyes glinting. Her voice burred slightly. "I see the way you look at him."  
  
Methos' eyebrows went up.  
  
"Yer in a fine case of lust, aren't you?" She said it with a wink, and a crinkle of her nose.  
  
Methos looked at her.  
  
"Aww, don't you see the way he's glancing at you lad? And he keeps licking his lips. Go on, give it a dance. But keep it PG mind, this is a family event." She pulled his hands up, and he grudgingly allowed her to pull him up onto the dance floor.  
  
And she was telling him to keep it PG! This song had a vaguely Arabian flair, and she must have been an accomplished belly dancer. Methos danced some as well, until a not too gentle bump sent him with an 'oof' into MacLeod.  
  
And she whirled past, hair awhirl. "PG mind."  
  
"Would you care to dance, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?" Methos asked it sedately, bowing slightly.  
  
"I wouldn't mind at all." Duncan bowed back, a strange look in the back of his eyes.  
  
When they sat down, at the end of the song, she came back. "You're supposed to hold hands now, mind you, and leaning on each other doesn't hurt either. The herb shop sells a lovely massage oil, too. Guaranteed to help with the stiffness." Her eyebrows waggled in a way that made the stiffness not one of muscles.  
  
"She thinks weren't in love." MacLeod chuckled.  
  
"No. She distinctly said lust earlier." Methos was laughing.  
  
"Um. she's not bad looking, is she?" Duncan said it nonchalantly, looking at a waggling tail, bouncing around on a rather nice rear.  
  
"I'm not feeling particularly heterosexual right now." Methos said it, hoping she'd steered him right.  
  
Duncan rewarded him with a thunderstruck expression. And he licked his lips.  
  
She swirled past, pausing for a mere second. "There you go, lad! Step one in the fine art of seducing a man!"  
  
Methos choked on his beer, MacLeod pounding his back, and he soon breathed easy again, but the warm hand didn't move quickly away. MacLeod was watching her.  
  
She whirled on that side of the table, and MacLeod stared at her, startled again. Then over to Methos, and he colored.  
  
"What's she say?"  
  
"You first, old man." The Highlander muttered.  
  
Methos gestured for him to come closer, and whispered it into the Scot's ear. "Now, if you were a lass, I'd tell you to shake your hips at him, and lower your eyelids to deliver a come hither look, but you've got that down already. So, skip the hips, and come hither him until the beer overrules his brain. It's no good to think when you're having fun anyway."  
  
Duncan spoke into his. "She told me to go ahead, there's no time like the present, and if we don't have fun to blame it on the beer!"  
  
Methos sat back, and nodded. "Wise girl." He lifted his cup to her.  
  
The music at last ended, and she stood there panting. A grin split her face as Duncan stood. "It's time to get back to the hotel, Adam. Let's go."  
  
Methos stood, and followed, chewing on his lip.  
  
And all that lovely situation had led to this pleasant sight. Methos grinned. "To young maids who can't stay out of another's business!" He blew lightly on MacLeod's cooling skin.  
  
"To sick minded children, with an unhealthy desire to be voyeurs." MacLeod said, wryly. Then he froze. "You don't think she was a Watcher, do you?" The desire wakening in him stilled.  
  
"Mac, if she was, where the fuck was she hiding her tattoo? The skirt covered her ass, the boots her feet, and the bodice her boobs. Everything else was available for our edification."  
  
"Mmm.. And a nice edification it was, too."  
  
  
  
The Acts:  
  
The lady with flame is Mimi Flambe, and Max! Never forget Max. Great Mime act. Great playing with flame act. Great act.  
  
Hack and Slash. Need I say more? Any Rennie will know what I mean. I cannot define them with words alone.  
  
The Joust. Yep. Men in armor, riding horse in armor, with real lances. Possibly serious injury here. I'll ever miss Sir Nick. Hoo-rah! Shame you have to retire. Can you imagine an Immortal on the Faire circuit?  
  
The whip show. Whipflash. Flames, Whips, and other things you don't do at home. Bullwhips, folks. Big, long, loud. Wheel of Death. ah, well, you have to see it to believe it.  
  
The bagpipes. The Rogues. I quote the Faire book here " the Bad Boys of Celtic Music." Buy their CDs, listen to them perform. Buy their shirts. Be an official Rougette. I am. Dance, baby, dance! They're from Texas. They come spend time with us in Maryland. Nice people. They'll even sign your CDs for you. Heh heh. I will collect all the CDs. They will be mine!  
  
  
  
The Shops:  
  
The kilt store: Wolfstone Kilt Co. What more need I say?  
  
The shoe store: Medieval Moccasins. Very comfortable. Very good fit. Very nice to wear when you have to practice self defense on rough, outdoor surfaces.  
  
The furred bag store with the pelts: Bulleye. Oh! Pelts! Pretty pelts! Fox tails for sale, too!  
  
The Methos pants and vest store: um, hem, Miles Tonne or Potomac Leather Company. Take your pick. I forget which one had the pants. I pay more attention to bodices, you know? And Miles Tonne has some VERY nice bodices and skirts for a risky lady.  
  
The Methos shirt: Bullseye leather. Yep, separate store from the plain Bullseye. Nice clothes, babes. Real nice.  
  
The lady's chainmail shop: Female Chain Maile. Yep. Brass or steel cups come in sizes "A" "B" "C" and "Oh my, my!"  
  
The weapon's shop: Black Sword Armory. Nice set up,, but ever will I miss Chesapeake Knife and Sword.  
  
The herb shop with the oils: Herbalist Delight. Also sells essential oils, sometimes hard to find ones. yummy, Ambergris. Dragon's Blood.. Smell like spices  
  
The bar which had the booze that convinced Methos to wear costume: White Hart Inn. Oh yeah. Oh. yeah. good mead they have there!  
  
The bar the Rogues played at: The Dragon Inn. My absolute favorite. Near the jousting area, so you hear the.clash and clang, and the ooh and the ahh. Nice place to sit and have a drink, has the most space for dancing of any of the inns.  
  
Bearing in mind folks, at 4:44 AM the Muse woke me up. At 8AM I finished. Forgive errors. Beta it if you want, I'll repost it when errors are corrected. Feel free to criticize. My first, and only ever, slash fic will be perfection if I can get the chance.. Hrm. 


End file.
